Pianos are Made for Falling
by fishwrites
Summary: Nodame Cantabile fusion: Arthur is a world-class violinist, trapped in Sydney by his fear of flying. Merlin plays the piano by ear, how he pleases, when he pleases - and really just wants to be a kindergarten teacher. There are certain inevitabilities.
1. Chapter 1

**P I A N O S**

_**a**__**re made for**_

**F A L L I N G**

:i:

written by fishwrites

_For _lunchy_munchy_ & _nachte_._

**:i:**

_**Don't play what's there, play what's not there.**_

**- **Miles Davis

:i:

**ONE**

:i:

_Outskirts of Sydney, Australia. 6 months ago._

There was a man sleeping on Merlin's doorstep.

Merlin hefted a heavy bag of confectionary and ginger-nuit biscuits more securely in his arms before crouching down for a better look. His knees protested with a creaky-sound as be crouched down, stiff from the cold late night dash to the groceries. He really just wanted to get back into his flat, back to his little space heater and back to his piano. But this man was in the way.

He looked to be about the same age as Merlin, had hair that glowed gold in the spluttering lamplight. He had pulled his tie low – they were evil things which Merlin had banned from life in general. His top buttons were undone, revealing a stretch of skin. He had a starch white shirt on, which he wore beneath a soft and warm-looking jersey.

The man was half lying on the concrete steps. His back was bent so that his chin rested on his chest and it nodded slightly as he breathed. Despite the faint whiff of the alcohol that probably knocked him out, Merlin thought this man was the third most beautiful thing he had ever seen (the first being his piano and the second being Liszt whom Merlin would marry in an instant had he not been dead and a ladies' man). It wouldn't do to leave him out here.

Merlin poked him carefully with one gloved finger. Well, actually, it was his actual finger doing the poking, as the black wool of his gloves was so worn through they had holes. Even so, the man's cheek was cool to the touch, despite dark overcoat he wore. Merlin poked him some more. No reaction.

Huffing, Merlin put his bag of rations by the doorway and tried to lift the man by hooking both hands beneath his arms, dragging limp legs along the steps. His shoes bumped rhythmically as Merlin heaved him up the hoped there wouldn't be too many bruises as he pulled his cargo along by the shoulders towards the lift on the first floor. Thankfully, the lift was working today, or Aesthetically Pleasing was going to be _very _unhappy when he woke up.

"You're really heavy, y'know," he said to the unconscious body. Merlin hit the up button for the lift with his fist, putting the man to the ground to retrieve his bag. There was a metallic rattle before the doors of the small lift _dinged_ open and Merlin proceeded to haul the man inside, the candy and biscuits riding on his chest. It was a bit of a mission trying to get the man's (long!) legs to fit inside the small lift before the doors chomped down on them. But Merlin managed with the skill of someone who had been in these situations before and had to save cups of tea from being crushed by falling piano lids.

Merlin pushed the button for the top floor and leant against the wall of the lift with a sigh as it began its rattling journey upwards. A green digital clock above the door told Merlin that it was just a little past midnight. Once the orange flashing numbers finally settled on 12, the doors opened. Merlin grabbed the man by the armpits and proceeded to drag him out into the narrow corridor.

There weren't many apartments in Merlin's block of flats, and there were only two doors on the top floor, one reading 36 and one reading 3. The number 7 had long since fallen off and Merlin was too lazy to bother replacing it. Instead, he had drawn a little quaver note drawn beside the brass "3" in black sharpie. From the other side of the door came a series of high-pitched chirps.

Merlin smiled to himself as he fumbled for the keys in his coat pocket. He stuffed the right one into the keyhole clumsily and turned it back and forth several times before it _clicked_ and the door swung open. Merlin turned back to the man and pulled him inside by one arm, his bag of candy still balanced on his chest. Kicking the door shut behind them, Merlin dragged the heavy body into the middle of the room, where a mattress lay buried beneath a veritable nest of blankets, clothes and stuffed animals.

"It's because I'm nice," said Merlin, a little out of breath from all the dragging, "And you're aesthetically pleasing."

Taking the bag of confectionary, Merlin put it on the table by the bathroom door for safekeeping. He took off the man's coat and shoes, then he arranged him under some blankets. Aesthetically Pleasing didn't wake up. Merlin wondered just how drunk he was and whether he should be doing something like calling 911 and arranging a stomach pump. That made him panic because maybe he _should _have rung 911, like, ten minutes ago. But then Amazingly Beautiful snuffled in his sleep, and Merlin forgot what he was thinking about.

A few minutes passed before Merlin realised he was simply staring at the man sleeping.

Behind him, Mozart gave a disapproving sort of chirrup. Merlin pulled himself away, standing with a stretch and a yawn.

"I know. I know," he said to the budgie, "That was creepy. But I couldn't very well leave him outside, could I?"

The bird squawked. Beside Mozart, Wolfgang woke up from all the noise, yawned a tiny birdy yawn and pecked Mozart vindictively. More squawking.

"Look what you've done," Merlin scolded, "Now he'll never shut up."

Mozart flapped his wings indignantly, and Merlin sighed. His pets had just as irregular sleeping patterns as their owner, due to his late nights, late mornings and compulsive piano playing. Filling a glass of water from the tap in the bathroom, Merlin methodically downed his daily dose of vitamins. The bottles stared back at him from their row on the bathroom shelf, marked words he couldn't quite pronounce. He was meant to take these in the morning. But Merlin often forgot. He winced at the taste, and set the empty glass by the sink. He closed the bathroom door with a soft _snick, _and opening a bag of fruit gummy bears, Merlin took the packet with him to the piano. Merlin shifted a pile of papers from the piano stool and sat down with a happy noise, facing the keyboard and open packet of sweets. Glancing over at Aesthetically Pleasing, who was now drooling on Merlin's pillow, Merlin took off his gloves and placed his hands on the keys.

Mozart said something rude in budgie-English.

Merlin began to play.

:i:

Arthur woke from a nightmare, wherein he had been abducted and forced to listen to Beethoven being butchered, phrasing and sustained notes chopped into pieces in front of him. Then his father chased him off the stage with a fruit knife, after the disaster that was last night's concert.

…

Arthur sat bolt upright, eyes flying open. The sight that greeted him made him wonder if he was _actually _awake or trapped in another nightmare. A very messy nightmare.

He had _no idea _where he was.

For one, Arthur couldn't see the floor. There was…_stuff, _piled over every inch of space, with a narrow winding path to the front door and to what Arthur presumed was the bathroom. Large, fluffy, multi-coloured animals were arranged along one wall, and Arthur rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand, trying to focus. _Where was he? _Arthur wondered just how drunk he had been last night, to wipe out any memory of the girl he obviously went home with. Giving himself a cursory once-over, Arthur noted that all his clothes were still on, his shoes sitting neatly at the end of the…nest he was lying in, and his jacket folded beside his head. He turned around, and came face to face with a white-felt unicorn.

Arthur didn't leap backwards.

His head hurt.

"What in the world…?"

Arthur threw back the blankets (it was colorfully checkered with bears in the squares). Then he scrambled off the springy mattress, pulling on his jacket as he went. Maybe he could leave before the girl came back and things got awkward. Or something. Trying to stuff his feet into his dress shoes, Arthur tripped over something on the floor, failed to find anything to grab onto and landed hard on his backside.

He swore.

Loudly.

Something chattered back at him, and Arthur looked up to see a birdcage near the window. Two brightly coloured birds, one blue and one yellow, were sitting inside it. The blue one puffed out its chest feathers, swung back and forth on its swing in a manic kind of way. Arthur stared. Not only did this girl live in a hovel, she also kept crazy birds. Figures.

"….shu'up, Mozzie," came a drowsy voice and Arthur spun around.

At first, he couldn't see who had spoken, eyes skirting over the pile of laundry over flowing in a basket, a bag of food on a side table and books piled in little forts along the walls. Then what Arthur had thought to be a curtain moved and a shock of dark hair appeared over the edge of – Oh! That's what it was- the piano. And this was definitely _not _a girl. Blue eyes blinked owlishly above cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and the first thing Arthur said was:

"Your ears!"

Magnificent Ears rubbed his eyes and yawned so widely Arthur could see all the way to the back of this throat.

"Good morning to you too," he said, pushing his stool back. There was a dark red line on his face where he had fallen asleep on the keyboard, and Arthur could slowly make out the outline of a grand piano, buried beneath all sorts of junk and soft toys and candy wrappers. A bag of half eaten lollies rested on the lid right now.

The budgies chattered animatedly in the background. Arthur edged slowly towards the door.

Magnificent Ears gave him a smile that caught Arthur off guard. It was wide, genuine and a little idiotic and confirmed Arthur's first impression of a mad hermit. A young mad hermit. A young mad hermit who apparently played the piano and whose bed Arthur slept in.

Right.

"Do you need painkillers?" asked Magnificent Ears as he picked his way clumsily across the room, "I've got some aspirin, if you think that would help. You were pretty drunk last night. I think you were drunk anyway… you're not a druggie, are you?"

By the time he had finished talking, Arthur was already gone.

:i:

"…and then he just ran away!" Merlin finished, dropping his face into his hands. Will gave him a sympathetic thump on the shoulder.

"Well," said Merlin's best friend, "You're kinda scary looking when you just wake up. Maybe it was a bit of a shock."

"Thanks," said Merlin, dryly.

"You're not going to start pining are you?" asked Will, narrowing his eyes. At Merlin's forlorn expression, he rolled them.

"No," said Merlin, "I don't _pine._"

"I think that says otherwise," said Will and pointed at the half-made, Arthur plushie in Merlin's hands. Merlin ignored him and went back to sewing.

_Darling Point, Sydney, Australia. Present day._

Afternoon sun streamed into the studio from the skylights on the ceiling, warm and golden. The studio itself was open and spacious, white walls and lacquered wood floor panels. In one corner of the room stood a polished black piano, a music stand, a shelf sunk into the walls full of music and CDs. There was a coat slung over the back of a chair, and a glass jug of orange juice on side table. The place smelt of rosin and wood.

A framed picture of a woman sitting at a piano, blond and smiling, stood on a glass shelf. It was the only photograph in the room.

Arthur turned the page on his music stand, chewing his bottom lip in frustration. He held his violin and bow in one hand, the other tapping out a complicated rhythm on the edge of the stand. He glared at the offending passage on the page, its semi-quavers and harmonics mocking him with their stems and rough tone. It sounded horrendous; Arthur had the urge to stab something.

There was less than a month until his concert, and he was still wrestling with this. He could recall the words of the critic, see the black type on the white page, taunting him: _without flair…dry…_and …_technical ability not compensating for the butchering of Brahms. _It made something inside Arthur's gut shrivel with indignation and hurt – though not as much as the expression on his father's face.

The doorbell rang.

Setting his violin down in the open case and loosening the bow, Arthur crossed the room to the door.

"Still practicing I see," said Morgana in greeting as she swept past Arthur into his the studio. Taking off her white-rimmed sunglasses, she tucked them into her pocket and surveyed the room. Her gaze took in the solitary music stand in the middle of the floor, surrounded by music on the floor. (Arthur had tossed them there in irritation.)

"You're late," said Arthur pointedly as Morgana dropped her bag on the piano stool and helped herself to Arthur's orange juice. Ice clinked against the glass merrily, throwing water patterns onto the floor as they caught the sun.

"Looks like I should come back tomorrow," Morgana threw back, "It still sounds like you're slaughtering those F sharps." She poured another glass of juice and set it down atop the piano, which always made Arthur glower.

"You're going to spill that," said Arthur, sulkily. There were going to be water circles on his piano, "And that bit is fine, I'll have you know. There's nothing wrong with it. I'm just…polishing."

Morgana made a non-committal noise, lifting the cover off the keyboard and running a quick scale up and down. The notes bounced off the walls, sparkling like the ice in the jug. Curling and uncurling his fingers, Arthur picked up his violin again and walked over to the piano.

"You know Uther's going to want to listen to this soon," said Morgana as she flipped through the music to the right page. Arthur shrugged, hiding a wince at the very thought.

"Well. He never approves of anything I do. Doesn't like my style."

"No," said Morgana, "You don't _have _style. You need to relax or you'll never get this part, no matter how many times you call me in to rehearse."

Arthur gaped at her, indignant.

"I do so have a-"

"You play everything like it's a battle, Arthur. You can't even smile whilst playing, or you stop from shock. It's not fencing, you know. You're not trying to break your strings."

Morgana thumped out a few descending sequences in the bass, reminiscent of Phantom of the Opera to emphasize her point. Arthur pulled a face, wiping his hand on a white cloth he kept on the piano. He had been practicing since seven that morning; and there were deep grooves in his fingertips on his left hand. Rolling back his shoulders, Arthur settled the violin under his chin, re-tuning it quickly with a few deft twists of the wrist.

Morgana found folded the edge of her music back, smoothing the spine over with one bejeweled hand. Arthur never quite understood how she managed to play the piano whilst wearing so many rings.

He raised an eyebrow – both in mock question and a signal.

:i:

_2 hours later._

"I am _not _doing this one more time."

"We need to make sure it's-"

"Arthur," snapped Morgana, stuffing the music into her bag, "I am your accompanist. Not your slave – I refuse to cater to your anal retentive complexes- Don't you point your bow at me!"

Arthur lowered the bow. He glanced at the music, still open on the stand, and turned back to Morgana.

"D. Let's start from figure D on page twenty seven, then."

"WE'VE PLAYED IT THROUGH SIX TIMES," said Morgana, standing up abruptly. At the expression on Arthur's face, however, she stopped, her own expression softening at the edges.

"Look, you're fine," she said, "Note perfect."

"Because that's all that matters here," said Arthur sarcastically. But he put down the violin all the same, carefully wiping the fingerboard with the cloth before sweat could damage the strings. A half opened cake of rosin lay next to the violin, amber and glowing in sunset. Arthur occupied himself by putting it back into its box, cloth corners folded down in neat, practiced squares.

"Honestly though," said Morgana, swiping the last of the orange juice. The ice had all melted by now. "You need to stop practicing before you fall over." Arthur could feel her eyeing him critically, "Did you eat lunch?"

Arthur waved a hand, irritably. "Yes, 'course."

Morgana being nice always unnerved him somewhat. When she deigned to be nice to him, it either meant that Arthur was being incredibly amazing (unlikely) or he was so appalling even she couldn't bear to tell him. Arthur thought that, under the circumstances, it was probably the latter.

As if reading his mind, Morgana whacked him across the chest with the back of her hand.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop it."

Arthur passed a hand over his face, feeling an ache at the base of his spine from standing too long.

"I just hate… you know," he shrugged, "All this."

"All this as in Bach or all this as in you have a full house next concert and you have to please the critics and your father? Because let me tell you, the latter is not going to happen no matter how good you are."

Arthur snorted, giving her a reluctant smile.

"Right."

"You're welcome," said Morgana, flicking strand of hair over her shoulder. Then she glanced at her watch. "…and now you've made me late. If I get a speeding ticket, you're paying."

Arthur rolled his eyes, and walked her to the studio door. The city outside was a light-scape now; a rim of red disappearing over the horizon. It looked like the curve of an blinking eye, the arch of a pause just before the cadence sank home. Arthur flicked on the gallery lights, bathing the ceiling in a soft glow.

"Ta," said Morgana, donning on her sunglasses and sweeping out the door.

:i:

Merlin wrinkled his nose in distaste, the smell of a hundred bottled horrors hitting him full in the face as the he opened the glass door. He hated pharmacies: mostly because he'd spent half his life in one.

A bell tinkled above him as he stepped into the shop, the air conditioning making him shiver as he made a beeline between the metal shelves and towards the counter. At the sight of Merlin, the girl behind the counter perked up and sat a little straighter on her stool. Before Merlin even opened his mouth, she slid a clear bag over the countertop with a smile.

Merlin made a face.

"Hi Gwen," he said, taking the bag and passing over the prescription, sandwiched between two ten dollar bills. It was a routine they had fallen into almost as soon as they had met, four years ago when Merlin moved to Sydney to study music. The tablets rattled in their small bottles.

Gwen scanned the slip of paper. "Atrovent?" she asked, putting the money into the till and disappearing behind a shelf.

"Yeah," said Merlin, "Ran out."

Gwen reappeared with a small green-white box, which she handed to Merlin with a sympathetic sort of look that always caught Merlin off guard. It was one of the reasons he never told people; he knew he wouldn't be able to stand the pity and assumptions. He took the inhaler from its package, digging a fingernail beneath the plastic seal. It said "Rip Here." Merlin did.

"How's life as the starving artist?" asked Gwen, spinning a blue pen between her fingers.

Merlin gave a snort of laughter, tucking the inhaler in its usual zipped pocket in his bag. A thought struck him and he rummaged in his pockets for a moment before pulling out a packet of nearly-depleted gummy bears.

"I'm hardly starving," he said, grinning as he dropped a handful of colourful sweets into Gwen's hand. She gave him a mock glare, but accepted the bears. It was a sign of deepest trust and friendship that Merlin shared his supply of sweets with Gwen. The giving of sweets was a sacred line you only crossed for the closest of friends (as far as Merlin was concerned).

"Living on sugar doesn't count," she said, trying to look stern. The grin on her face ruined it, however.

"Sugar is a very important part of human diet," said Merlin knowledgably, "And-"

"- and something you don't need any more of," interrupted Gwen, brushing her mane of hair over his Remember who is studying medicine and who is studying how to make noise, thank you Merlin."

Merlin bit off the head of a red bear, stuffing the now empty packet into his pocket again.

"Does this mean you're buying me lunch?" he asked hopefully.

"No," said Gwen.

There was a pause.

"Alright, fine!"

:i:

When Merlin arrived at the performing arts campus, it was only ten in the morning. A few students wandered about the green lawns, white ear buds trailing, noses buried in music. Merlin blinked a few times as he emerged from shadow of C block, and had to think for a few long minutes before he remembered where he was supposed to be at this particular time on this particular day. He started in the direction of the practice rooms, a row on the second floor. If he was right in thinking today was Monday, then Will should be practicing in B26. And if Will was practicing in B26, then Merlin had another hour before he was due to see Gaius. Which, depressingly, also meant that he would have to wait yet another hour before he could have lunch.

As Merlin slowly made his way up the stairs, he was nearly bowled over by someone dashing _down_ the stairs with his violin at arm's length. Pages of manuscript flew everywhere as the bow whacked Merlin on the nose.

"Ow!"

"Sorry! Sorry I'm kinda in a-"

"Lance?" said Merlin, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the other man scrambled to gather his music. They were handwritten, Merlin noted as he bent to help pick some loose pages up and saw the smudges of pencil at the bar-lines.

"Where's the fire?" asked Merlin, handing over a pile of music.

Lance combed his hair back hastily with his fingers, looking a harried – which was unusual for Lance, who usually looked calm and full of zen no matter what was going on around him. In fact, Lance had more or less saved Merlin's life three months ago. He had calmly located Merlin's inhaler and water bottle whilst Merlin lay almost passed out on the floor, chest seizing from running after stupid idiots who had taken off with his iPod. At that point, Merlin could barely conquer the next intake of breath, let alone the zipper of his bag. As it were, Lancelot had retrieved the iPod and cemented their friendship from thereon in. He also had the whole tall, dark, handsome thing going for him – and was straight as a violin bow. Merlin sighed.

Lancelot straightened the files of music into their appropriate order, still looking a little harassed.

"Audition with Monmouth," he said as way of explanation.

"Christ," said Merlin, eyes widening, "Good luck! Not that you'll need it."

"Cheers." Lance flashed him a nervous smile, before turning and hurrying down the flight of stairs without another word. He was nearly at the bottom before Merlin remembered something.

"Isn't your audition this Friday?" he called out.

Lance didn't even pause, and his voice echoed back around the corner.

"It _is _Friday, Merlin!"

Merlin frowned at the empty space where Lance had just stood, before glancing up at the clock on the wall.

"Shit!"

Needless to say, Will _wasn't _in room 26. And Merlin _very _late for-

"Sorry!" Merlin cried, bursting into one of the classrooms. He wasn't out of breath because he had learnt his lesson about running long ago: namely, not to do it. He still felt a little dizzy though, a familiar pulsing at his temple giving him a headache. He itched to take the new inhaler from his bag, but it would only make the headache worse, so he left it where it was. The man sitting on of the grand pianos made a disapproving sound at the back of his throat as his eyebrows rapidly disappeared into his hairline.

Merlin dropped his bag by the door.

"What's the excuse this time?" asked the Maestro, standing up.

"I forgot it was Friday?" Merlin tried, widening his eyes in an expression that usually scored him free sushi with Gwen. Gaius propped up the music stand and Merlin gulped.

"If you did not have the talent you do, my boy, I would have refused to teach you a long time ago. Forgot it was Friday indeed," said Gaius, eyebrows still suitably menacing. "What are you still doing? Sit!"

Merlin sat.

"I want to hear this again," said Gaius, smoothing down the spine of the Urtext so the pages would stay flat. The sheet music was unmarred by pencil notation or scribbles, as smooth and clean as the day Merlin first bought it. "Starting from adagio."

"But what about-"

"And I _mean _adagio, Merlin."

Merlin took a deep breath, felt it go all the way to his toes and past the recently digested gummy bears in his stomach. Running his index finger down the length of B flat, Merlin began to play. He liked Mozart (so much so he named his budgie after the composer). He liked the way nothing could be hidden between the notes, the way each one must be clear and precise, linked together like pearls on a necklace. It always reminded him of tea and saucers and polished wooden floors in the flat he would like to own someday. The cadences were gentle, the mordents were polite, and Merlin thought it was all rather charming. It spoke of phrases like "drawing rooms" and words like "sunshine" and maybe fields of wildflowers. It wasn't really his fault for getting carried away.

Gaius's voice shook him out of his playing and his hands faltered. Everything was dark.

"Merlin!"

Merlin opened his eyes.

"What?" he asked, blinking his vision into focus.

Gaius was giving him a disapproving sort of look, one eyebrow raised high, then other frighteningly low. He tapped the edge of Merlin's music, and Merlin glanced back at it guiltily.

"You didn't turn the page. Not once."

"I was too busy playing…?" Merlin tried.

"Your eyes were closed," said Gaius, "and your tempo was terrible! Did you look at this at all since yesterday?"

"I practiced!" protested Merlin.

"With the music?"

Merlin looked down at his hands.

"I don't need the music," said Merlin, sulkily, "I can't make myself stare at the notes. My eyes go funny."

"Until you can reign in your excessive improvisations, I want you to practice _with the music._ Am I making myself clear?"

"It's interpretation, Gaius!" Merlin complained, letting his forehead fall onto the piano with a thud, "I can play this already, can't we move on?"

"Your mother sent you to me to learn to play the piano. Not to learn to _play. _Stop being so lazy."

"I'm not being-"

"Mozart is turning in his grave," Gaius intoned gravely, "You need to learn _control_, my boy." 

Merlin groaned. His breath misted the surface of the piano lid. He drew a quick angry face in the condensation with his fingertip before turning back to the music. The tail of the quavers seem to string hands, until everything was a blur.

"Mozart changed things too," Merlin muttered under his breath, placing his fingers back onto the polished keys. Beside him, Gaius sat down in his chair.

"Yes. But _unlike_ Mozart, you are neither accomplished nor dead, so I would get on with it."

Staring resolutely at the book in front of his face, Merlin picked up where he left off.

:i:

Half way through the second movement of Bach's Partita, Arthur's phone rang; buzzing on the polished side table as it flashed in silence. Judging by the orange alert screen, it had been buzzing for some time now – Arthur hadn't noticed. Annoyed, he stubbornly finished the phrase he was playing before setting his violin down on top of the piano with a huff of irritation.

He hated interruptions. He also hated phones in general, but they were (or his was) a necessary evil.

Necessary Evil buzzed again, more violently, and Arthur picked it up, flicking it open in the same movement.

"Yes?"

"Is this Mr. Pendragon?" came an unfamiliar voice. Faintly, Arthur could hear clatters and a babble of voices in the background. He frowned.

"Who is this?"

"Mr. Pendragon, you have been listed as Miss Morgana le Fay's emergency contact? You're required at the hospital."

Arthur was glad he wasn't holding still holding his violin. As it was, he nearly dropped his cellphone.

"Sir?"

:i:

Merlin had always wanted to be a kindergarten teacher.

A kindergarten _music _teacher, to be precise: with an old upright piano (brown) that wasn't quite in tune in the bass (it had been knocked about when transported), and peeling stickers on the chipped keys (middle C!). It would be a piano that had seen more solitary days, perhaps in a drawing room or in the living room as a shelf or as the reluctant companion of a girl with a doll and ringlets to match. But it would be a _nice _piano, friendly, free. It wouldn't care if Merlin changed Brahms here and there, wouldn't frown like the Steinways did when he pulled back too much or let go and ran full tilt down a sequence of semi-tones. It would be a nice piano that didn't mind fingerprints and coffee stains, that had a broken hinge (which meant Merlin couldn't put music on it – and that was a good thing). He would get to teach four year olds how to sing- _farajaka, farajaka – _and the piano wouldn't care if they were out of tune – _dor may vu, dor may vu!_

Will accused Merlin of not knowing what he wanted. He did this often, usually when drunk or when Merlin elaborated in detail the kind of house he would like to live in when he was a kindergarten teacher (wooden with high ceilings, window-boxes and an apple tree in the back yard). His teachers complained too. One after another, they lamented his "lack of ambition."

"You lack discipline," Gaius would say, sighing. "Your talent will come to nothing if you continue like this."

Children wouldn't complain about an extra mordent or two.

Merlin bit into his pear, eyeing Will's packet of sushi. He had finished his own ten minutes ago, after Gwen had dropped them on the table and gone racing off to find Lance.

"Monmouth is an annoying bastard," said Will, "He'll probably pull out some convention out of his arse and give Lance a 2.0."

Three down. Seven more sushi pieces to go. Will dunked a piece of salmon into far too much soy sauce, and Merlin wondered if it was too early to try the "look, what's that?" trick. He chewed on his pear thoughtfully, foot tapping out a rhythm on the linoleum of the cafeteria. Will's hair resembled a porcupine today, carefully gelled into chaotic spikes which bobbed as he ate. They didn't really have a direction – just gravitated outwards from Will's head. Merlin didn't have the heart to tell Will that it didn't make him look like a crazy, musical genius. It just made him look crazy.

"If anyone can withdraw a scholarship, it will be that dude."

"Lance is amazing with Bach," said Merlin stoutly, "And Monmouth is a sucker for anything Baroque. I think the repertoire will be fine."

"Ba- God, don't _even-_" Will stopped to take another bite of sushi, "-talk to me about that fucker. Who the hell stops someone from a vibrato on double stopping, huh? I mean, he makes me feel like I have a fucking stick up my fucking-"

"Will!" Merlin interrupted the stream of profanity.

"I'm telling the _truth. _I refuse to play something written by a bible basher."

Merlin dropped his face into his hands, distressed by both Will's utter lack of respect and the fast disappearing sushi in front of him.

"I cannot believe you just called J.S Bach, father of all music everywhere, a _bible basher._"

The cafeteria was a huge, square room on the third floor. There were large, floor-to-ceiling windows making up one wall of the room and overlooking the entrance and courtyard below. Merlin got an idea. Standing up on his chair, he interrupted Will's spiel by pointing out the window and exclaiming:

"Holy crap! Look! It's a double bass walking by itself!"

Will spun around in his chair.

"What the hell?"

"Look! It's walking!" said Merlin, gesturing enthusiastically before dropping from his chair and swiping Will's unfinished sushi and stuffing them into his mouth as fast as he could. To be fair, it was really Freya carrying her instrument. But she was so small, and the double bass so big, that from above it did look like a walking cello (in Merlin's defense). The most important point was that by the time Will turned back towards the table, Merlin was licking soy sauce from his fingers.

"You little shit!" shouted Will, so loudly that half the cafeteria stopped to stare, "You stole my food! Again!"

Merlin gave him an angelic smile.

"You're always saying I should eat more."

"But not _my _food," said Will. He eyed the empty plastic packet with distaste, but sunk further into his chair in defeat. Merlin almost felt a tiny bit guilty. Almost. Will tugged out his battered cellphone from his pocket, flipping it open while Merlin returned to chomping on his half-eaten pear.

"You better run if you don't want to be late to class," he said, kicking Merlin under the table with his foot.

"If I'm on time, the Prof might have a heart attack. _I _might have a heart attack."

Will gave him a glare in between the spikes of hair.

"Fine. Don't run. Drop out. See if I care – at least then I'll be able to eat my lunch in peace."

Merlin finished off the last of his pear.

"Have you taken your Aquasols then?" Will asked, gruffly.

Merlin pushed back his chair with a metallic screech, groping for the strap of his bag from where it had gotten tangled with one of the chair legs. He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, _mum._"

:i:

The _Grande échelle _was a pretty French restaurant tucked away just out of Darling Point. It catered to those who could afford three digit entrees and wanted their meal served on a billion plates per dish. More importantly, however, it had a lovely Kawai grand that needed a pianist.

"I'm here!" Merlin called out, swinging his messenger bag off his shoulder. Making his way through the back door and into a veritable mist of something sweet smelling, he dumped it on one of the hooks in the employee's restroom. He was meant to go straight into the main room of the restaurant and begin warming up – after all, it was barely half an hour before opening. But as usual, Merlin poked his head around the door of the kitchen hopefully.

"I'm here!" he called again, in case they hadn't heard him the first time. He ventured into the room. It was all stainless steel and polished surfaces. The floor was spotlessly white, and already there was steam rising out of a large, cylinder pot in a _poof_ of deliciousness. Merlin sniffed appreciatively. He took a few steps towards the pot, eyeing the large silver ladle hanging on the hook above it.

Instantly, the sous-chef materialised in front of Merlin, and he squawked with surprise, almost falling backwards onto a newly-prepared dish of Gougère**.**

"Don't even think about it!" said Morgause, brandishing a very large fillet knife.

"I wasn't!" said Merlin, waving his arms, nearly upending someone who was passing with a stack of glasses.

"Stop moving!" Morgause commanded, _still _holding knife, and Merlin froze in mid flail.

The woman sighed, one hand on her hip as she eyed Merlin up and down, taking in the scuffed shoes and jeans.

"Go get changed, then come back," she said curtly, turning away. Merlin beamed and rushed out of the room, stumbling into the doorframe in his haste. When the sous-chef Morgause said 'come back' in their little routine, it meant Merlin got to sample something tasty that she made. Sometimes several _somethings _before he had to go out and play the piano for the rest of the night. The incentive made Merlin's mouth water and he quickly pulled the cheap suit from his locker and was changed in record time. There was a reason he loved this job so much.

Merlin barrelled back into the kitchen.

"I'm done!"

One of the younger cooks gave him a very disapproving look as he chopped spring onions by the sink. Merlin didn't mind: he thought he might actually cry if someone else got to eat food whilst he had to chop onions. Well, he would probably be crying anyway, because of the onions, but that was besides the point.

Morgause set a plate down in front of Merlin.

Merlin stared. It looked like some sort of pastry, tips glazed with sugar and there were a ring of candied almonds around the base.

"What is it?"

"Croquembouche," said Morgause, who was already returning to a plate of something that looked very complicated, "Without the caramel glaze. I don't want you breaking your jaw and the dessert is for tomorrow anyway. Eat it!"

Merlin picked the little pastry up. He chewed slowly, tasting the sugar melting on the roof of his mouth.

"I love it!" he beamed. Morgause's expression didn't change, but remained as dead pan as ever. Still Merlin though the corner of her lips might have twitched a little. Maybe.

"Like that's a surprise," she said, "Now go play. You can have dinner before you leave."

"Alright," said Merlin happily, chasing the last pastry crumbs on his lips and making his way out of the kitchen.

The restaurant itself was lit by the soft, pleasant glow of chandeliers and not the stark white of fluorescent. There were faux-frescoes on the ceiling, and the dark wooden panelling on the walls meant lovely acoustics. The grand piano, polished and black, stood slightly off-centre. Merlin could see the warped reflection of all the cutlery in its curved side. He pulled the piano stool out and lifted the lid of the piano and folded up the cloth covering the keys. Then he set the lid up on the first stand, propping it up so the notes could float out of the piano like the scent of sugar cooking, teasing and sweet. Merlin thought he got more exercise than the average person; lifting piano lids every day required a lot of muscles.

Settling himself down comfortably in front of the keys, all of which were perfect and adorable and grinning at him, he ran a quick scale up and down the piano just to warm up his fingers. Then he guiltily wiped them with the cuff of his sleeve as bits of pastry sugar made sticky imprints on the ivory. Oops.

"What shall we have today, mm?" he asked the piano, tickling a few mordents out of the treble like children laughing. He played Chopin the last time he'd worked – you could never go wrong with Chopin in a restaurant – so this time… perhaps… Debussy? Debussy was lovely because he was all impressions and pastel colours. Merlin played a few chords tentatively, modulating the keys so it matched a painting by Chagall he had once seen somewhere…

There came an ominous _crash_ from the kitchen, muffled by the insulated walls. Oh. Morgause didn't like Debussy. Merlin quickly switched the fourths for perfect cadences, tidy as curtseys and twice as polite. Morgause was prone to withhold food from Merlin every time he played something too French (despite this being a French restaurant) and withholding food was something terrible Merlin never wanted to think about. In the end, he settled for typical restaurant sounds, elevator music, letting the chords settle on their own into the lazy twirl of jazz as the first customers began to trickle in.

/EMBED DAY AND NIGHT

This was definitely on his top three dream occupations, thought Merlin as he improvised a request (Chopin) that he had heard but never seen, playing piano for a group of happily-eating people. He thought he would be perfectly content to come in every night and play the piano at _La_ _Grande échelle_ for the rest of his life, sneaking in film music here and there, watching the semiquavers sink sneakily into cream puffs and soup like extra seasoning. It was hard work, but he enjoyed it and he mentally rearranged his career choices.

1. Kindergarten music teacher.

2. The pianist at _La Grande Echelle_.

3. Official food taster at _La Grande Echelle_.

The Maestro would probably scold him for having no ambition or something along those lines, but Merlin couldn't comprehend why he should have so much ambition if he was happy with this, happy with _music. _The patrons here never told him off if he put a little too much _rubato_ into Mozart like a cook experimenting with herbs and salt. And if he liked to improvise, it was only because the mordents looked ever so sparkly, hanging onto the chandeliers like that. Merlin played a few more, just to see them float up towards the ceiling like champagne bubbles.

And nearly fell off his chair when he leaned too far back.

He thought of all the pieces waiting to be pulled apart, sitting, pages unturned. He thought of the notes taken down in scrawled handwriting, corners wrinkled like a well-hummed tune in his bag along with empty wrappers and his keys. And in a surge of whim, Merlin slurred everything over, phrases melting into each other like the best kind of golden syrup, and he almost laughed out loud at what Mozart might have said about it.

:i:

Arthur nearly killed seven pedestrians, two bikers and a dog getting to the hospital. When he had arrived, it was to find that there were no parking vacancies in the hospital car-park. Swearing very loudly, he double parked with a screech of rubber and dashed up the stone steps into the brightly lit hospital foyer.

"Morgana Le Fay," he snapped to the receptionist, who took one look at his face and began clicking through whatever was on her computer screen.

"Third floor, room twenty six of the- sir!"

Arthur was already half way across the hall, jabbing his thumb impatiently at the "up" button on the elevator. He felt disorientated, a sick, squeezing sensation in his stomach He barely registered the plastic words – ambulatory care- before he was flinging open a door to reveal-

"- what do you mean I can't play for the next three months?" Morgana was yelling at the doctor. Arthur's breath rushed out of him in a giant exhale. _Morgana was alive_. And well enough to be throwing a fit, apparently. A nurse hovered by her patient, and at the sight of Arthur, she said,

"Excuse me, sir, but you can't-"

"She's my sister," said Arthur, without looking at her and strode into the room. Morgana was propped up on a narrow hospital bed, looking terrible with an ugly bruise on her temple and her hand set in a white cast. Her face was chalk-pale aside from the two spots of colour high on her cheeks as she continued to rage at her poor doctor.

"That's bullshit, it was a fucking-"

"Morgana!" said Arthur, taking hold of her free hand so she would look at him, "What the hell happened? Are you alright?"

"It was a fucking taxi driver, Arthur-" Morgana started, but the doctor cut across her.

"Miss le Fay has broken her wrist."

Arthur glanced at the cast, then back at the doctor. His hands felt cold.

"Broken?"

"And her index finger is badly fractured. The cast will need to stay on for at the very least six weeks-"

"I want a second opinion-"

"And then I recommend therapy for the muscles after the cast comes off."

Morgana pulled her hand out of her brother's with a jerk.

"For heavens sake-"

"How long until she can use her hand?"

The doctor consulted his clipboard in a way that suggested he wanted to be anywhere but here right now. Arthur thought this was understandable since Morgana was directing her full fury at him. She was glaring so coldly that Arthur would have found it hilarious had the circumstances been different.

"Three months."

"Oh Jesus," cursed Arthur, mouth suddenly dry.

"We don't have three months, Arthur! The recital is in three fucking _weeks_!"

Arthur turned to her at last, trying to stamp down on the panic curling in his gut. _Gods. Why did this have to happen now?_

"I am aware of that, Morgana-"

"I'm your accompanist! Now I'm your ex-accompanist! You're screwed! Or are you suffering from concussion as well?" spat Morgana while she poked him hard in the chest.

"Ma'am you need to rest-" the doctor started and then quailed under Morgana's glare.

"Arthur, what part of not being able to play the piano don't you-"

"I wasn't exactly thinking about my fucking recital when I got the call from the hospital, alright Morgana?" shouted Arthur, feeling his chest constrict and expand in the space of a heartbeat. The relief from barely five minutes ago had faded, and he was breathless in the face of this new catastrophe.

Morgana's expression softened slightly.

"Arthur, I just-"

"I can find another accompanist. It'll be alright." It didn't sound very convincing, even to himself.

"Arthur, I don't know anyone who can learn three concertos, two Rachs and an original transcription in less than four weeks. Oh God, I've ruined everything. Shit. Shit! SHIT!" She flopped dramatically back onto her pillows, hair fanning out.

Arthur passed a hand over his face and took a few deep breaths. Impulsively, he dug into his jacket pocket for his cellphone. Morgana's eyes widened as she saw him scrolling through the address book.

"Oh, fuck no. No! You are _not_ ringing Uther."

"I'm not ringing father," Arthur lied uneasily with his thumb hovering over the call button.

"All he's going to do is confiscate my car and then we'll ALL be screwed."

Arthur sighed.

"I hate to be practical here, but as you've so calmly pointed out, I am already 'screwed'. My father knows more people than I do, perhaps he can find someone in time for the concert."

Morgana made a frustrated noise at the back of her throat, and smacked her fist into the bed with a dull _thud._ The doctor looked worriedly from Morgana to Arthur than back again, clutching his clipboard. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Arthur pushed the call button, feeling as if his whole world was crashing down about his ears.

:i:

In a little French restaurant by the port, Merlin gleefully butchered Mozart into pieces.

:i:


	2. Chapter 2

**:i:**

_**Improvisation: The art of thinking and performing music simultaneously.**_

- Grove Dictionary of Music (1954)

:i:

**TWO**

:i:

On Monday, Gaius had a whole pile of CDs and scores waiting for Merlin. The pile was so big Merlin literally skidded to a halt in the doorway, jaw dropping with horror at seeing seven German _Urtexts_ residing in the same room.

"Ah good," said the Maestro, looking up from a page of notes. Merlin dropped his bag and several red gummy bears escaped from an unzipped pocket.

"What is that?" he asked, eyeing the stack of scores and making his way around the far end of the piano to avoid them. Gaius chuckled.

"I have a job for you. If you're interested."

Merlin perked up. The last time Gaius had wrangled Merlin a job, it was _La Grande Echelle_. He trusted Gaius' judgment impeccably after that – aside from when it came to Mozart and Beethoven, of course.

"Okay!" said Merlin, forgetting the Urtexts instantly in the face of possible pastries and a new piano to play on. He bounced a little on the piano stool.

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

"It's not that sort of job, Merlin. It's time you started concentrating more on your repertoire, and I've recommended you for an accompanist post."

So no pastries. But that was alright, thought Merlin. He often accompanied people, students usually, as he had a knack of learning pieces incredibly quickly, and according to Gaius, incredibly inaccurately. Also, people paid accompanists well and that was always a bonus. Merlin always loved the different voices that came with playing with someone else. He loved hearing how the novelty of an oboe sweetened the tenor of the piano, how the cello was like a particularly well-made pastry base to fluffy treble notes or how the violin was just so romantic.

"You'll need to have better concentration than this, at any rate," said Gaius. Merlin suddenly realised he'd become too immersed in his food and music simile and had zoned out completely. He gave Gaius a guilty grin, and the Maestro only shook his head fondly.

"I think this will be invaluable for you."

"Who am I accompanying?" asked Merlin, curious.

"Arthur Pendragon. He's a violinist – very good. "

"Ohh, a violin!" said Merlin, ecstatic, "Okay!"

Gaius' other eyebrow went up also.

"He has a very demanding repertoire," he said, pulling the scores closer and laying them out on the music stand. Merlin's eyes boggled. "And the concert is in three weeks."

Merlin flipped open one of the books, a smoothly red Rachmaninov (Of course it was Rach), gingerly. The others were just as daunting with their titles in black and gold. Mozart. Bach. No water-color impressionists here. Only music like oils and sharp ink. Merlin drooped a little.

"Why am I only being called in at three weeks?" asked Merlin.

"His accompanist had an accident. Injured her hands quite severely," said Gaius and Merlin winced in sympathy. He chewed on his bottom lip, turning another page of yet another Urtext. "I know Arthur's father of old, and I recommended you. No one else will be able to play these up to standard in the space of three weeks."

Merlin puffed up a little at the thought of Gaius choosing him, _him_, above all the other students at the conservatoire. The feeling was warm and inflated his heart like a Brahms lullaby.

"Thanks, Gaius," said Merlin, grinning, "I won't let you down."

He reached for the CDs, but Gaius stopped him, pushing the CDs away. Merlin frowned.

"You have no idea who Arthur Pendragon is, do you?" asked Gaius, sighing.

"No," said Merlin, confused, "Should I?"

"I know for a fact you live in an apartment, Merlin Emrys, and not under a rock. Let's just say you will be learning all of the pieces by score-"

"NOO!" Merlin wailed.

"- and I want _these_," Gaius slapped Rachmaninov and Mozart into Merlin's lap, "Memorised by Wednesday. I know you can do it."

"But I _can't_!" cried Merlin, feeling a little dizzy from all the horror. He drew the word "can't" out. "You know I learn with recordings. How else am I going to get everything up to scratch in three weeks?"

"Arthur Pendragon is not that Lancelot fellow you always accompany. Bluffing your way through all the difficult sections will not suffice, Merlin."

"I don't bluff my way through them!" protested Merlin, indignantly, "I improve them!"

Gaius gave him a stern glare and Merlin shut his mouth quickly with a _click _of teeth.

"Don't be blasphemous," scolded Gaius, "Now let's begin."

Merlin groaned.

"Can I get Lance to practice with me as a warm up?" he asked, hopefully.

"No."

"Can I at least listen to the CD once through?"

Gaius whacked him over the head with a rolled up piece of manuscript.

"Ow!"

"I can promise you your usual lackadaisical playing will not work for Pendragon at all. So we better start now. You have a long way to go."

:i:

Merlin first played the piano at kindergarten.

He was only five when his father died from cystic fibrosis.

The fact that these two things occurred at the same time was always something Merlin kept tucked away at the back of his mind. To be absolutely honest, he couldn't remember his father very well at all – just the smell of grass, dirt, warm hugs and rumbling laughter. He could vaguely recall smiles, crinkles around the eyes like crinkles in well loved music and the sensation of flying. But that was all.

He could recall the piano with perfect clarity.

**:i:**

"He's still studying at the university?" asked Arthur, unable to keep the doubt from his voice.

"Apparently he is a prodigy, according to Gaius," said his father stiffly, setting down his pen and appraising Arthur from behind the wide expanse of his desk. Arthur tried not to fidget.

"It's just – perhaps it would be better to hire a professional?"

"Morgana is professional," said Uther flatly, "and even she says it's impossible."

"Then why-"

"I trust Gaius," said Uther in a way that brooked no argument, "He has never been wrong in the past."

"How soon can we start rehearsing?" asked Arthur. He felt tired, exhausted from the building tension that had him coiled tighter than a violin string. Now that the shock of finding Morgana in hospital was wearing off, Arthur was being slowly and surely consumed with panic.

Uther typed something on the laptop in front of him, and it was a long moment before he spoke.

"This Friday. Gaius says Emrys will have your concertos and Rachmaninov by then."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"This Friday? That's… impressive."

Uther snorted derisively.

"We shall see. I don't need to tell you how important this concert is, Arthur."

Silence smothered the room like words on a page.

"Yes, Father."

Arthur went back to his studio. Once there however, he couldn't bring himself to play, to drill the bars he knew better than the back of his own hand. Instead, he made himself freshly-squeezed orange juice and played the Borodin Quartet through the surround sound system. Chamber music always managed to calm him down.

Arthur took the glass of juice with him and settled into the only comfortable chair in the room. He watched the sunlight filter through the windows and ceiling, watched it refract off the glass shelves. The picture of his mother smiled at him from the corner of the room, and Arthur thought about playing one of her recordings instead and listening to the droplets of an imaginary piano fall from the wall. She was an amazing pianist, or so he had been told.

Deliberately, Arthur drained the juice. He rinsed it under the cold tap and set it to dry in the never-used dish washer. Wiping his hands with the white towel hanging by the sink, he made his way back to the piano. His violin case was closed, sitting silent and still on the table. He could do this in his sleep. Arthur let the smell of rosin fill his senses, familiar and safe.

A violinist is never perfect.

Arthur picked up his violin.

:i:

Merlin dumped all the new music on top of all his other music on top of his piano. He glared at it for a few moments before collapsing onto a beanbag. It was already Tuesday, and he was only half way through the Rachmaninov. The notes on the page seemed to squeeze and pull each other into illegibility every time Merlin tried to concentrate, making him feel as if he was musically retarded. If his budgie's reaction to his playing was anything to go by, he was sounding musically challenged too.

"I can't do this!" he complained to Wolfgang, "It's impossible! I bet not even Lang Lang could do this. Not even…No. Liszt _could_. And he'd totally rub it in my face."

Wolfgang chirruped and Mozart gave his companion a disapproving peck. Merlin got up from his beanbag, slipped on an empty candy packet and fell down again. Getting back up, he made his way carefully to where the cage hung, opening the door and sliding in a tentative finger. He poked Wolfgang in the fluffy stomach, nudging until the bird conceded and hopped onto his index finger. Merlin quickly withdrew before Mozart could bite him.

"I don't see why I have to memorise it when I get to use music anyway," said Merlin grumpily, walking back towards where his piano was just visible beneath everything that was on top of it, "Gaius is just being difficult as usual."

Wolfgang nibbled his thumb.

"Accompanists don't have to be note perfect," Merlin continued, "That's the best thing about it. No one is really listening to you, right? This would be so much easier with a recording…"

Flopping down onto the piano, Merlin set Wolfgang down so that he perched on top of the music stand. He hoped the budgie wouldn't poop on the piano again. Behind them, Mozart squawked indignantly, probably unhappy to be left behind. Merlin turned on his seat.

"You'll fly around the room and get stuck in some dark corner and I'll have to spend all day finding you," he told Mozart, "you never sit still."

Mozart said something very rude in a language Merlin couldn't understand. Sighing, the pianist picked up the first book on the pile (Rach) and smoothed it open on the rarely-used music stand. There was a little Post-It note in the corner, marking where Merlin had got to yesterday. He flipped to that page now, pressing down on the new spine to make the music sit right.

Wolfgang scooted over to the right to make room.

"Thanks," said Merlin.

Running a finger down a black key in apology, Merlin once again began to sight read.

An hour later, he was digging through his flat for his laptop.

"It must be here somewhere!" he told Wolfgang, who was riding on his shoulder, "I'm pretty sure I've used it recently. I think." He dived afresh into a new pile of laundry, pushing aside an open suitcase and several bags full of supermarket cookies. He almost dislodged Wolfgang when he threw several pillows out of the way. Dust tickled his nose, and Merlin sneezed. Then coughed. And continued to cough, wheezing a little as he tried to get rid of the familiar, obstructed feeling tight at the back of his throat. Forcing himself to stillness, Merlin gasped in a gulp of air and held it. Then it shook out of him in another bout of coughing which sent Wolfgang tumbling off his shoulders in a flurry of feathers and concerned chirping. He hated these episodes; random and triggered by the smallest of things. Merlin blinked tears out of his eyes as the coughing slowly receded. He let out a tentative exhale of breath, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, and returned to his search.

"Ah," said Merlin a little while later, pulling out the old black laptop, "Here we go."

It took more than five minutes to turn on, but at long last Merlin managed to connect to the wifi internet next door and logged onto YouTube. Then he proceeded to systematically type in all the pieces on the repertoire, setting the laptop onto the piano so he could follow along with the music at the same time.

The speakers of the laptop hummed and buzzed with the music, crackly and not the best. Merlin grinned as he turned the page.

:i:

By that night, Merlin could play the Rachmaninov from beginning to finish.

:i:

Gaius was glaring at him from where he sat, rolled up manuscript held poised in one hand. Merlin gulped as he lifted his hands from the keys, the lingering notes of the concerto still sinking into the walls like transparent bubbles. Merlin tried to look suitably innocent, widening his eyes in an expression perfected over the years in order to obtain offerings of cookies from middle-aged women and free food everywhere.

"Not bad," said Gaius at last, and Merlin almost cheered out loud, "But it sounds as if you learnt this blind."

Merlin went back to looking innocent.

"Blind?" he parroted.

Gaius, who thought Merlin was still seven years old, who hadn't really entered the twenty-first century yet, and who had not discovered YouTube, frowned.

"I don't know how many times I must tell you, but your accuracy is still abysmal. Sergei certainly did not write in that passage during the presto."

"I don't know what you mean," said Merlin sweetly, and the piano giggled, all strings and trills. Merlin quickly stepped on the _une corda_ pedal.

Gaius rifled through the pages, eyebrows still as intimidating as ever. Merlin resisted the urge to poke them.

"I want to hear this again. Begin."

The Maestro was a heartless dictator.

"You know I'm not going to be able to play everything perfectly like a machine, right?" intoned Merlin sulkily, "Machines are overrated. I bet this Pendragon person wouldn't want a machine either."

_Thwack._

"Less talking, more playing," said Gaius, unrolling the score theateningly.

:i:

"Arthur Pendragon?" repeated Lance, "_Pendragon_? Are you sure?"

"No. I was joking," said Merlin, biting into his second sandwich, "Are you happy now?"

"Pendragon as in Uther Pendragon's son?"

Merlin was beginning to get annoyed at all the fuss his friend was making of Prat. They should have been paying due sympathy to the pain of playing with a metronome for five hours straight.

"Well since they both have the same last name that would probably be it," he said peevishly.

Lance had abandoned his own lunch in favour of staring at Merlin with a disgustingly bright expression on his face. Merlin chewed the tuna viciously.

"Pendragon. As in _Deutsche Grammaphon executive_ Pendragon."

Merlin dropped his sandwich. Thankfully, it landed in his lap and not the floor.

"His father's a music critic?"

Will repeatedly mimed slamming his head into the table beside Lance. Merlin felt a little bit of horror seep into his soul. Music critics were right up there with metronomes and neck-ties on his list of Evil Things. He hoped very much that Arthur Pendragon was not going to be like this father. Was the evil aura of critics hereditary?

"Only the scariest critic this side of the hemisphere," cut in Will. "Why did you say yes to Gaius, mate?"

"I thought it was going to involve pastry!" cried Merlin.

"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!" said Lance, as if Will hadn't spoken at all. "Networking, Merlin!"

Will glared. His hair glared also.

"Critics are all the same," he declared loudly. Several of the nearby students looked over, and Merlin saw some of them nodding in agreement, "They should all jump off the Harbour Bridge."

"Your homicidal tendencies concern me," said Lance with dignity, even while drinking soda out of a can.

"Their job is to give musicians nightmares," announced Will.

"Your hair gives me nightmares," replied Lance without looking up.

"He will cut you down, cut you down!" said Will doggedly as he focused his attention on a quivering Merlin. "They are all bad, _bad_ news."

"I'm meeting him this afternoon," said Merlin, clutching his music bag. "Don't tell me that!"

"I'll come with you, if you like," said Will generously, "and run through things." He glanced down at his wristwatch. "We still have about half an hour. Let's jam."

"What if his father is there?" asked Merlin, looking a little green.

There was a long moment of silence at the little table. All three music students paused in their eating to contemplate the idea of Merlin in the same room as a music critic. The image was akin to that of Merlin being in the same room as a metronome.

"I'm sure he's not that bad," said Lance encouragingly.

As promised, Will ditched his musical theory lecture to keep Merlin company. They made their way across the campus and took the lift instead of the stairs. Will insisted upon carrying Merlin's bag like the mother hen he was.

"All those books in one place can't be good for you," he said stoutly as they stepped out of the elevator and onto the first floor. There were several practice rooms on this ground floor, all of which were bigger and nicer than the ones located on the top floor which meant usually they were all booked out. Gaius had reserved one for Merlin and Pendragon's first practice, however, and Merlin was grateful for the space when he pushed open the heavy, sound-proof door.

"Have you gone through everything then?" asked Will, dumping his violin case on top of a table by the wall. Merlin pulled out a few of the music by random and set them out on top of the piano's glossy lid.

"Yeah. Except for the handwritten one, some transcription from Wieniawski. The piano is positively odd! I'm going to change it."

Merlin sat down on the piano stool and opened the lid with a little excited bounce.

"I like your attitude," said Will, pointing his bow at Merlin like a sword whilst tightening it.

Merlin played a little random excerpt, trying out the pedals. Music dropped out of the bottom of the piano like marbles, clear and solid. They sank into the carpet as soon as they were played, and Merlin played some more just to let the sound run into one another like excited children. He began playing a little of the Beethoven, simple and pretty, imagining the violin slurring everything over like a singer. It would be something bright, so the piano had to be gentler, softer like pastels on canvas. Merlin stroked the keys, dithering as Will came to stand by the piano.

"Far too boring. Let's go."

Merlin grinned.

/EMBED BEETHOVEN VIOLIN EXTRACT "LOL" version

:i:

Arthur had never actually set foot in this part of the conservatoire before.

His suit jacket and dress pants drew curious looks from the jean-clad population. But he ignored them and walked purposefully in what he hoped was the right direction. Arthur fingered the piece of paper in his pocket (_Room 4, first corridor to the right_) and shifted his grip on the handle of his violin case. Opening the glass doors, he stepped into the small foyer which led into a long, spacious hallway. Green doors, all of which were closed, lined the length of the corridor and offered entry into the practice rooms. Each room was identified by a brass number of by the handle. Faintly, as if from a great distance, Arthur could hear strands of music. He stopped outside door number four and looked in.

There was a little rectangle of glass set in the door, through which Arthur could see a sliver of piano and the back of someone very skinny, curved over the keys. There was also a violinist with absolutely shocking hair. He was bent almost double as he played with vigour. Arthur frowned, taking the piece of paper from his pocket. He glanced at the number on the door – perhaps there had been a mistake?

No. Arthur Pendragon did not make mistakes.

He opened the door.

Sound washed over him like a wave. For a brief moment, he caught the piano, lyrical and startlingly beautiful beneath a truly horrendous violin counterpart. Then the violinist stopped abruptly and then spun around to face Arthur. It took the pianist another three seconds to realise he had been interrupted.

"Ever heard of knocking?" asked the violinist, annoyed, hair bobbing in spikes as he talked.

Arthur raised an eyebrow and set down his violin case.

"Ever heard of a schedule? I believe I have this room booked for two o'clock."

The man's eyes darted from Arthur's tie to his violin case; then he said, with dawning comprehension and not a lick of respect:

"_You're_ Pendragon?"

"Yes," said Arthur curtly, "I'm here to meet with my accompanist. Do you know where Mr. Emrys might be?"

"Oh man. I _told you_ he'd be a fucking arse," he said to his friend, who was looking at Arthur with wide, blue eyes.

_Very familiar blue eyes_. Recognition was a strange sensation, rising hot past Arthur's collar. The ears were unmistakable.

"You!" he exclaimed, completely forgetting about being aloof. "What are you doing here?"

He had never imagined he'd see strange person who had bought Arthur back to his hole of a flat. Truth be told, Arthur hadn't thought about Merlin at all after that incident, which may or may not have involved a bottle of tequila, but seeing him again was like getting the air knocked out of him. But Arthur couldn't quite say _why _that was, exactly.

Hair Disaster looked from Arthur to his friend.

"You didn't tell me you knew each other, Merlin," he said, sounding confused.

"We don't," said Arthur determinedly.

"…."

"MERLIN!" Will waved a hand in front of Merlin's face, and the boy (for he looked no older than 18) seemed to start out of a daze. He began to ramble.

"We don't. Know each- I mean, I didn't know he was-"said Merlin, because obviously someone who kidnapped people off the street would be called _Merlin, _"not really I thought, I mean obviously-"

"I don't have time for this," said Arthur, beginning to get annoyed. He was oddly distracted by Merlin's cheekbones, something he didn't really have time to notice during their first meeting… kidnapping… escapade. He frowned and held tightly onto the present. "Where's this Emrys?"

Merlin coughed.

"I'm Emrys. Merlin Emrys, actually. And you're Aesth- uh, Arthur Pendragon…?"

Arthur stared some more.

"You're joking."

Merlin blinked at him.

"You're _not_ Arthur Pendragon?"

Arthur didn't know whether he was being laughed at or the pianist – Merlin Emrys- was really this mentally deficient. He went with the latter.

"If you are indeed Emrys, then I hope you are as good as advertised," he said imperiously, turning to unpack his violin from its case. He slid the shoulder rest onto the base of the violin and swiped his bow with two long strokes of rosin.

"A," said Arthur.

"A what?" replied Merlin, still staring at him like a gormless child. Arthur gave him his most incredulous sort of glare.

"Play an A!"

"Oh! Right!" Merlin pressed down the appropriate key quickly, then helpfully added a D minor triad. Arthur ignored it, tuning quickly. He glanced sideways at the other violinist, who was still standing by the piano.

"Excuse me. I have a practice now," said Arthur, raising both eyebrows.

"So what?" retorted Hair Disaster.

"So it's your cue to leave."

"Who the fuck do you-"

"Will!" said Merlin.

Throwing Arthur a disgusted look, Hair Disaster, whose name was apparently Will, swung his violin case over his shoulder, violin and bow still held in one hand, and then stormed from the room. Shrugging, Arthur undid his top button and loosened his tie so that it wouldn't get in the way of playing. He turned back to face his pianist. The brief interaction with Will seemed to have rendered Merlin rather speechless, and he was _still _staring at Arthur over the top of the piano.

"How much of the repertoire have you finished?" asked Arthur because one of them had to be professional.

Fumbling, Merlin pulled a stack of music from a brown satchel by the foot of the piano. He dumped them in an untidy pile beside the music stand. Arthur resisted the urge to straighten them.

"Most," said Merlin, "Finished going through the concertos. And the Beethoven. And your Bach, of course."

Arthur was pleasantly surprised, even impressed. But he only said, "Good. We'll warm up with _Spring_, I think. Run it through."

Merlin flashed him a grin that momentarily blinded Arthur with its intensity. Arthur had to look deliberately away with a frown. He settled the violin beneath his chin, the sensation of it familiar as breathing. The bow between his fingers. The strings beneath. The stillness before the first note.

/EMBED BEETHOVEN VIOLIN – FULL

Merlin was very different from Morgana. It threw Arthur off, more than a little (which he realised, at the back of his mind, was a Very Bad Thing. You should never become dependent as a musician.) Morgana had a mastery of the piano that was rare; everything was precise and sharp like clear print on a smooth page. From the very first note, Merlin was…_cantabile. _That was the first word that came to Arthur's mind.The notes were fluid, gentle and it made Arthur lean in, unconsciously, closer.

Perhaps it was the piece, which was open major like an open skylight. But the sheer enjoyment on Merlin's face made Arthur feel as if the piano was pouring notes down his throat in a wash of sunlight. It took him by surprise, this odd, skinny pianist who played as if he had never stopped. Arthur let his notes ring clear, loose vibrato from the wrist to better hear how the accompaniment wound itself around the sustained note like-

Merlin was doing some very strange with the dialogue in his right hand. Something very strange and blatantly _wrongwrongwrong. _They kept playing, but it was obvious Merlin was beginning to – Arthur didn't really know what the hell was going on. He scowled and stopped.

Merlin kept going.

Arthur whacked him hard on the side of the head with the nearest Urtext. _Bach_.

"Ow!" cried Merlin, hands flying off the keyboard to clutch at his head. He stared up and Arthur.

"What was that?" demanded Arthur, "What on earth were you playing?"

Guilt flashed across Merlin's face, but he gave Arthur his most winning smile.

"The music..?"

Arthur could feel a headache coming. He played a phrase, quickly, briefly on his violin.

"From there. Show me."

"Uh…" said Merlin, glancing at the music in front of him. And that's when Arthur noticed. Although they were almost half way through the first movement, Merlin's music was still on the first page. Moreover, the book was upside down. Arthur stared, slightly confused and very irritated. He gave Merlin a measured glare.

"The music fell over," said Arthur's new accompanist, smiling hopefully.

Arthur was speechless.

"That was utterly rubbish!" exploded Arthur. Well, almost speechless. "You can't make things up in a lapse of memory," he continued, throwing up one hand in exasperation. He hoped his expression said 'profoundly displeased' because they had no time to waste as it was. Then something occurred to him.

"And why are you having a lapse of memory in the first place when you have the bloody music right in front of you? You're useless!"

Merlin was staring at him (again!). His eyes were very round and his mouth was slightly open; he looked like an idiot. Arthur gripped Merlin by the base of the neck with his free hand and forcibly turned his head to face the music.

"Beginning!" said Arthur, righting the music and stepping back.

:i:

"…he keeps going on tangents!" Arthur complained.

"Uh-huh," said Morgana, flipping a page of the magazine she was currently reading.

"Yes. I mean, he isn't too terrible a pianist. Obviously one who can't sight read to save his life, but still. Every time I think we are getting somewhere, he will play something blatantly improvised. It's unacceptable! I don't know what the Maestro was thinking. I can't go into concert with him, Morgana – he said he was _improving _Beethoven. _Improving Beethoven!_ "

"You realise he managed to pick up two and a half hours worth of _your _repertoire in the space of a week?"

"I didn't say he was _useless, _per se-" said Arthur.

"I bet you did," replied Morgana with a smirk.

"He drives me crazy!"

"…"

"This is all your fault," said Arthur and gave up.

"Pass the orange juice."

:i:

This time Merlin saw the Urtext coming and managed to save a few brain-cells by dodging to the left. However, he overestimated the length of the piano stool and fell off. Arthur slapped the book back down onto the piano.

"Are you retarded or just blind?" he demanded as Merlin picked himself off the ground.

"Why are you so grumpy?" muttered Merlin. He was genuinely perplexed. Arthur seemed more interested in the accompaniment than in his own playing. In fact, his playing had become almost mechnical rarely varying despite the number of repeitions. As far as Merlin could tell, Arthur had everything note perfect, down to the very last staccato dot. It was almost like playing with a metronome, and it was beginning to make Merlin nervous.

Arthur looked a little mad albeit in an immaculately-dressed kind of way. His collar was still a perfect, white line although he'd been playing for the last hour or so. He looked a little wild about the eyes.

"Morgana was never so sloppy," he said, jabbing a finger at the music. "It's dialogue. _Dialogue! _It ruins my part if you're off doing your own thing!"

"I wasn't doing my own thing!" protested Merlin.

"I'm pretty sure those harmonies weren't like that the last time I checked!" said Arthur, "Also, _you _are meant to be following _me. _Stop slowing down here, it's not the exposition." He stabbed the page another time. It was going to be full of holes. Exhausted, Merlin slumed a little where he sat. Arthur set his violin down on top of the piano so that he might more easily tear his own hair in what appeared to be utter exasperation. He turned around in a half-circle, muttering to himself. Merlin watched him warily. He really didn't understand what Arthur's problem with his playing _was _– aside from his obsession with doing everything to exact specifications.

"Are you nervous about the concert?" asked Merlin tentatively, and then he screwed his eyes shut in preparation for the explosion. When none came, he cracked open his eyes slowly to find Arthur staring at him rather oddly.

"I don't get nervous, Merlin," he said curtly.

"Well," said Merlin, waving a hand vaguely, "you don't look like you're enjoying yourself at the moment."

At this, Arthur frowned. Or rather, his frown deepened. Merlin wished he would get a smile.

"What has that got to do with anything?" said Arthur, dismissively. He picked up his violin again, wiping one hand on a white cloth. Fastidious. Merlin blinked.

"What has...? Everthing! Why are you playing the sonata if you don't like it?" asked Merlin, closing the music on the stand and reaching for the last one on the "yet to play" pile. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"It's not about what I like and don't like," said Arthur, speaking very slowly as though Merlin was either very young or mentally retarded. Or both. "In fact," Arthur continued, "that's something you should learn. For example…_not changing things as you see fit_!"

Merlin winced.

"Look, I'm _trying_-" he started, but Arthur cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

"Try harder. We'll start from _G_."

Merlin pouted but turned the pages obediently.

:i:

They never talked about their first meeting.

Arthur thought it s count as a _first meeting_ because not all the participants were sober. He kept everything strictly _on the music_ so as to avoid any embarrassing conversations that might swerve that way. After all, Arthur was a professional.

Merlin marked the date carefully on his cellphone.

:i:

That evening, Merlin lay on his beanbag and finished sewing the Arthur-plushie. From his ears trailed his earphones and his iPod played Arthur's pieces on repeat, over and over. He was sprawled on his stomach, materials scattered haphazardly around him while he worked on getting Arthur's expression _just so. _He had debated over giving Arthur button eyes, but the film _Coraline_ had been far too scary for Merlin to try anything with buttons. Instead, he gave Arthur eyes sewn with dark blue and black thread, neat and round on a cotton face. On his iPod, the _Caprice_ was playing.

Merlin sighed, reaching for another gummi bear and popping it into his mouth.

He had been wary of making Arthur's face, before. Merlin had left the plushie a sad incomplete shape with blond silk hair because he didn't want to risk making a mistake. But now that he had seen Arthur – _Arthur. _Merlin made a happy noise and ate another bear. It wouldn't do to give Arthur plushie the smile he _was _going to give him – throughout their entire rehearsal Arthur hadn't made even the slightest twitch towards a smile. When he played, there was a permanent little frown on his face, a furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrated. For a violinist, he stood remarkably still. Merlin kept being distracted by Arthur's left hand, his fingers flitting over the strings, sure, precise. The long notes made Merlin feel as if Arthur was bowing his heart strings, the vibration going all the way down to his toes and fingertips. Merlin shivered at the memory and turned up the volume on his iPod.

Arthur shouted a lot. Merlin didn't mind, really, even though he was faintly worried Arthur might go find someone else. He was worse than Gaius when it came to Merlin playing 'properly', and kept calling him 'useless' every time Merlin deviated from the accompaniment. The more he said it, the more flustered Merlin became which resulted in convoluted tempos and hastily covered up notes. Arthur hadn't looked happy.

Merlin cut out Arthur's miniature jacket with infinite care. There was something… _intense _about Arthur's playing that made Merlin want to close his eyes and sink into the music. It was the sound of something being perfectly executed, and so Merlin found it hard to concentrate on his own part, to keep going and not to whisper the right hand in order to give the violin more room to _breathe._

It left Merlin with an achy feeling inside his chest. Will said it was because Merlin forgot to take his pills after lunch, but Merlin didn't think so. This was a wholly _Arthur _effect, and he wanted to feel it again. He had wondered and wondered after the strange, drunk man, who'd drooled on Merlin's pillow. When Aesthetically Pleasing had run away so suddenly, Merlin had been _heartbroken_. But now he was back! Surely it was destiny?

Wolfgang finished eating a piece of thread and chirruped in agreement.

He put the two templates for the jacket side by side and threaded a needle through in order to start stitching. It was going to be a wonderful plushie. Merlin could just tell.

:i:

"I should sack you," said Arthur, halfway through their third practice.

"You can't sack accompanists," said Merlin brightly.

"I think you'll find that I can."

"But you won't." As if proving his point, Merlin gave Arthur a grin that stretched literally from ear to ear.

Arthur glared at him, but there was no heat behind it. He was tired. His shoulders were a little sore from a long day's worth of practice, and there was a buzzing in his ear – a strange buzzing sound like the sound of a perfect third that was, well, a little _too_ perfect. Merlin was bent over the far side of the piano stool, searching for something in his bag. A moment later, he resurfaced, holding out half eaten packet of colourful sweets.

He proffered it to Arthur.

"No, thank you," said Arthur, wrinkling his nose.

Merlin's face fell.

Arthur took one.

:i:

"I hate practicing here," said Arthur at the end of their fourth rehearsal. By then, they had run through absolutely everything. Merlin had been hit on the head more times than he could count. Arthur had had two mental breakdowns which resulted in crazy shouting and Merlin trying to wait it out. It hadn't been very nice. If Merlin had to be absolutely honest with himself, Arthur was a bit of a prat.

Okay, Arthur was _a lot _of a Prat, but that wasn't really important. What _was _important was the fact that Arthur didn't seem to like half his repertoire at all.

"What's wrong with _here_?" asked Merlin, petting the piano a little defensively.

Arthur shrugged.

"The walls. No air, it's like a coffin."

Merlin looked at all four walls. They were a very nice shade of blue.

"Maybe it's because you're overdosing on Beethoven?" asked Merlin, fishing out his trusty packet of sweets. He picked out a green one and chewed on it thoughtfully. His back was sore from sitting so straight – Arthur didn't like it when he slouched. Actually, he wasn't really sure _what _Arthur liked.

The violinist turned around at the crinkling sound of plastic wrappers.

"For gods- _why _are you eating at the piano? Again? How many times do I have to tell you, you'll ruin the keys! You will not be eating when playing my piano. Jesus Christ!"

Merlin frowned at him, clutching the packet protectively.

"I'm not touching anything!" he said indignantly. Just for that, Arthur wasn't going to get any of his gummi bears. And then Merlin's brain caught up with his ears.

"Wait, your piano?"

Arthur picked up his violin case, his music already packed away in the zip-compartment. He shrugged on his jacket, and Merlin thought the contrast between dark material and gold hair was going to give him a seizure.

"You'll come to my studio for future practices. Morgana did," said Arthur rather dismissively. "My piano is much better than this one at any rate."

Merlin felt the first real twinge of annoyance stir inside him, pushing aside the warm fuzzy feeling he got whenever he looked at Arthur for too long. He laid a hand on the piano keys, glaring up at Arthur.

"That's nice a judgemental of you," said Merlin, offended on the piano's behalf. "You don't even play!"

Arthur quirked one eyebrow, and there was the faintest trace of a smirk on his face. It was the closest he had come to smiling in Merlin's presence.

"_Au contraire_," he said, setting down his violin case on the floor and striding over to the piano. "Off," he commanded, flicking his index finger like dislodging a fly. Merlin gaped at him, before grudgingly sliding off the end of the stool. He came round to the other side, propping his elbow on the piano lid.

Arthur shook back his sleeves.

/EMBED CONSOLATION #3, LISZT EXTRACT

Arthur played the piano like he played the violin – Merlin didn't need music to know that every note was where it should be, that the rumbling of the bass was precise and articulate, or that the pedel held each note through until the flick of the line. The perfect sound of it all whirled up from the strings, and Merlin stilled as he listened.

Arthur continued, one eyebrow resolutely arched. He didn't even look as if he were concentrating. The notes continued to flow out like a river. Arthur's fingers darted, and the melody rippled from the piano like the waves of water created by a falling pebble. He made the piano shiver and the sensation his playing engendered travelled all the way up Merlin's elbow.

All too abruptly, Arthur stopped.

"There," he said rather smugly. "Liszt."

"I know!" said Merlin, annoyed yet impressed. It wasn't a _nice_ feeling, and he felt himself blushing. It was as if Arthur were saying, _Look, the only reason you're my accompanist is because I can't play two instruments at once._ Merlin huffed inwardly. He would show him. He would.

Arthur drew out a white card and a pen from his top pocket and wrote a line of neat print across its blank centre. He tossed the card to Merlin, who missed the catch and thus had to fish it out of the piano.

Arthur made a _tsk _sound. Merlin glowered at him, stuffing the card into his pocket without looking at it. He then pushed Arthur bodily off the stool. Unfortunately, Arthur jumped up before he could fall.

"What the-"

Merlin sat in front of the piano and began to play. He played back the Liszt Arthur had been flourishing, letting his fingers run on memory, allowing the octaves to thunder out in a fit of overindulgence.

Then he decided he didn't like that piece particularly, so he changed the melody on the downturn scale, semiquavers morphing into the _other _Consolation. He could hear Arthur moving away, saying something, probably being contemptuous - but Merlin didn't look up. _That'll show him._ He closed his eyes resolutely so Arthur's face wouldn't distract him like the very distracting thing it was, jaw-lines and frowny when he was playing double stops across the g-

No. _Liszt_.

Merlin got so carried away that, when he next looked up, the room was empty.

:i:


End file.
